


A State of Emergency

by FrostbitePanda



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Dragonstone, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Missing Moments from Season 7 prompt, Missing Scene, One-Shot, and i'm only a little bit sorry, and we love them, are perhaps supposed to be better planned, but it's for a dear reader of mine so deal with it, but that's okay, flangst, for allegra, get well soon, hope you like it love, i tried writing fluff but oops i wrote some angst too, i wrote this shit instead of writing my other shit, in which our two babies are absolute idiots, marriage proposals, season 7, the weather is just terrible
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-08
Updated: 2018-08-08
Packaged: 2019-06-23 21:06:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15615003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrostbitePanda/pseuds/FrostbitePanda
Summary: “Very well,” she replied tersely, turning her attention to the meeting at hand. They were set to leave in just three days, and Jon Snow was acting like a beetle avoiding the boot. She would not admit how much it irked her, how much shemissedthe stubborn fool.All she knew, once this meeting was concluded, is that she would tolerate it no longer. No matter his ill mood, he was a king and her ally now, her prospective Warden of the North. Nothing could be gained from such behavior.(Jon and Dany come to an agreement. For Allegra.)





	A State of Emergency

**Author's Note:**

  * For [allegre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/allegre/gifts).



“Where is Jon Snow?” 

 

Davos shifted uneasily, hands folded behind his back. “He has… taken ill, Your Grace. As his Hand, I speak for the king in his stead.”

 

Dany peered at the man with no small amount of suspicion. Jon had been quite well not but a few hours ago. He had eaten a hasty lunch with her and her company in the Hall, before nearly bolting from his chair and dismissing himself with a stiff bow. This behavior, much to her ire, had turned out be the new normal these past few weeks. 

 

The King in the North was sure to never be rude entirely, or to ignore her outright, but where he used to seem to seek her company, eager to offer advice and counsel, to share a tale or a joke, he now avoided and doged. She had not had a proper conversation with him since the Dragon Pit, and that had been the only exception in nearly a month. 

 

“Very well,” she replied tersely, turning her attention to the meeting at hand. They were set to leave in just three days, and Jon Snow was acting like a beetle avoiding the boot. She would not admit how much it irked her, how much she  _ missed _ the stubborn fool.

 

All she knew, once this meeting was concluded, is that she would tolerate it no longer. No matter his ill mood, he was a king and her ally now, her prospective Warden of the North. Nothing could be gained from such behavior. 

 

It certainly didn’t help that she felt as though she were missing something. A friend, a confidant, a–

 

She shook her head, flicking those thoughts from her mind like the pests they were. “Shall we begin?” 

 

+++ 

 

She found him. It wasn’t as if he had made it particularly difficult for her. He was not proficient in deception. She inwardly wondered why his Hand had bothered to lie at all. She would be far less offended. 

 

But her initial feelings of outrage and huffery were quickly banished by the sight of him, darting and dancing across the training yard with Grey Worm. 

 

In his time here– nearly three months, by her estimation– he had somehow slid into the strange, tenuous dynamic of Dragonstone like a bolt in a lock. 

 

He seemed to have taken to the Unsullied particularly well. It made sense, she supposed, being the serious, taciturn warriors they were, Jon Snow fit right in. She knew he often trained with Grey Worm (before his departure to Casterly Rock) and the two men had formed a fairly solid friendship. Missandei once joked that she wondered what they talked about other than swordplay, and what they did other than spar. 

 

Jon had even formed a fledgling relationship with her Dothraki. Despite the very vexing fact that Jon Snow could not have been more different from the swarthy, willowy horse lords, he fell into their good graces well enough. He had admitted to her one evening over supper, when their relationship was less…  _ tense _ , that he held an abiding fondness for horses, and that this had helped him relate to such starkly different peoples. He had showed only the scantest trepidation when taking meals among them, or talking with the few bloodriders that had learned the Common Tongue. 

 

In fact, just two days ago, she had stumbled upon him and Missandei in the council chambers. She had hated the black, poisonous dart of  _ jealousy _ that had pierced her heart then, but she had good reason to always assume the worst from men– even one as unconventional as Jon Snow. Although, she told herself, there was no  _ reason _ for her to be jealous, for him not to pursue whichever woman he wanted. Missandei was young and beautiful. It made sense. 

 

“What is going here?” she had asked a bit too sharply. 

 

Jon had looked from her to Missandei and something in his face darkened, as if he were ashamed. Or angry. “Lady Missandei is teaching me the tongue of the Dothraki, Your Grace.” 

 

She had felt stunned, her voice leaving her. He had stood from his chair, bowing to Missandei and to her before striding from the room. He had come so close to her she nearly reached out, but she was simply a coward around him.

 

How she hated what he did to her. 

 

As she looked on, she could not deny that the sight was… enticing. The way both men moved was something she would never be able to understand, but watching Jon was particularly diverting. She had seen her Unsullied spar, her Dothraki fight… the closest approximation she had to a Westerosi warrior was Jorah, who was more brutal in style, taller and perhaps stronger, relying more upon the power of his swing than the quickness of his hand. 

 

Jon ducked and spun and parried, his magnificent sword twirling in his hand like a top. He managed to draw Grey Worm in a stalemate three times in the brief spell that she managed to observe. Both men were so quick, the fights never lasted long. 

 

She had heard some errant whisperings about Jon Snow being the greatest living swordsman in Westeros. She never truly believed it. Until now.

 

“You are good for an Andal, Jon Snow,” Grey Worm panted with a little smile as he wiped his face with a cloth. 

 

Daenerys had arrived alone, calling away her guard so that she may speak with Jon in private. As such, she had also arrived in silence. She stood on the wooden catwalk, looking down into the muddy, slushy training yard. It had rained and half-heartedly sleeted nearly without pause since they had arrived back from King’s Landing. It had only ceased this morning. 

 

“Aye, but I’d be better if I could get more training in,” Jon responded with a chuckle. “I’m just a bit rusty, is all.” 

 

Grey Worm snorted, passing Jon a water skin. Dany couldn’t help but think how handsome Jon was, without the bloody cloak. He wasn’t even wearing his usual hauberk or gorget– only a padded gambeson. 

 

“Unsullied say you pledged to Khaleesi,” Grey Worm ventured curiously as he hung up his shield and spear. “In front of Mad Queen and everyone at Dragon Pit.”

 

Dany could not see Jon’s face, his back was turned to her, but she could see his shoulders tick up, hear him clear his throat as he fastened his belt back around his waist. “Aye,” he finally said. “Aye, I did.”

 

Grey Worm smiled at him, something like pride in his face. “You will not regret, Jon Snow.” 

 

“I don’t think–” Jon halted in the middle of his answer as Grey Worm spotted her and turned to bow. 

 

“My Queen,” Grey Worm greeted seriously. 

 

Jon turned on his heel, looking up at her with wide, almost terrified eyes. He bowed shallowly after a confused moment. He was sweaty, hair clinging to his neck and jaw. “Your Grace,” he said. 

 

_ He had called me his queen once, _ she thought with just a hint of something she would not name. 

 

Dany shifted straighter, clutching her hands together in front of her. “Lord Snow,” she greeted coldly, “it seems as though you have recovered from whatever ailed you not an hour ago.”

 

She couldn’t be sure, but she thought that he grew even paler than he already was as he clenched his jaw and looked to the ground, nothing to possibly say for himself. 

 

“I wonder, Lord Snow, if you’d escort me about the beach?”

 

He looked back up at her, simply mortified. She was not sure what to think about that. “Your Grace–” 

 

“I find that the sea wind is wonderful for aches and auges, my lord,” she said as lightly as she could as she began her trek down the stairs and into the training yard. “Besides, I am in need of a good walk, and I’d appreciate the company.” She reached the bottom of the stair, treading carefully so as not to soil her hem. “I can catch you up on what you missed from the meeting today.” 

 

“My Queen,” Grey Worm began in light of Jon’s sudden bout of muteness, “Let me accompany you and Lord Snow. You have no guard.” 

 

Dany warmed, her captain's devotion to her never failing to please her. She gestured to Jon’s sword belt. “There will be no need for that, Grey Worm,” she said, daring to look Jon in the face as she went on. “It seems that the Lord Snow is as able to protect himself and me, as well as any.” 

 

This made Jon properly uncomfortable. He coughed, shifting on his feet and cutting his eyes away. 

 

She looked back to Grey Worm. “Besides, you are needed with your men,” she told him. “Half of them are to sail for White Harbor tomorrow at first light. There are many preparations to be made.”

 

Grey Worm looked vexed, but bowed and marched off without another word. She turned to her reluctant companion and waved to the sallygate some yards off. “Shall we?”

 

He cleared his throat again and nodded. To her great shock and immense pleasure, he held out an arm, though he would not look at her. It was… progress, she supposed. She stepped forward and took up his arm, folding both her hands in the crook of his elbow as they made their way to the gate. 

 

There was nary a hesitation from the men at the wall: the portcullis was drawn up and they stepped onto the precarious little bridge of sea-slicked stone that crossed over a narrow, but deep crevasse that took them to the moors, before the path led them down a steep switch-back stair carved into the cliffs and to the gray shore. 

 

The whole way across the bridge and down the stair, he kept a gloved hand over her own, pulling her a bit more fully to his side. He was very warm from his exertions and smelled very, very male. A fact that she vainly tried to ignore. 

 

She slipped with a yelp of alarm on a sliver of black ice, a remnant of the lackluster sleet, and he nearly pulled her feet cleanly from the stone and her shoulders into his chest. Sure that she was steady again, she looked over at him to thank him, but his face was strangely… pained, and her words died in her throat. 

 

When they reached the packed sand of the beach, he dropped his elbow and she conceded his arm with no small amount of disappointment. They made their way closer to the distant surf and to the south end of the island. The wind was calmer than was usual, the tide so low that the sea was a distant rumble. Gull cries were the only thing that truly stirred the quiet. 

 

“I am… sorry, Your Grace,” Jon finally offered after what seemed like an age spent in a silence so tense it could be sliced through like butter. “For not… “ He paused, looking to the long line of the ocean. “For deceiving you.”

 

“It would not be the first time,” she answered primly. 

 

He glanced at her, lost for a moment, before his eyes cleared and he hung his head, understanding. The scars. The bloody scars. The proof of his ultimate sacrifice writ large upon his skin. 

 

But she did not want to speak of that just yet. “What has been ailing you these past weeks, my lord?” she asked. “I mean, truly ailing you?” When he didn’t answer immediately, looking away again, she continued, tone taking on an edge. “You have spoken no more than pleasantries to me since–” her voice faltered. 

 

He had shuttered himself tight the moment she had left that cabin, days and days ago. And she was just now coming to realize it, like the bloody fool she was, and she was trying very hard not to think of what that might mean. 

 

Did he regret his decision? Did he come to realize that he was simply addled by exhaustion and chill when he spoke those words to her? Had he figured out that she really was not worthy of his allegiance? 

 

As he was so liable to do, he did not answer straight away, her sudden muteness seeming to vex him. The sound of their boots grinding into the sand echoed too loud in her ears. 

 

Eventually, though, he slowed to a stop and lifted his eyes to her. They were so dark, full of something so dangerous she had to look away. “How long did you sit there?” 

 

“What?” she asked breathlessly, bewildered. “What do you–”

 

“How long did you sit there, beside me?” 

 

She swallowed, feeling oddly sick. She attempted to gather her scattered wits in the face of his perilous, black expression. “What does that have to do with anything?”

 

Jon looked back to the sand, tucking his thumbs into his belt. “Davos told me I was out nearly four days.” He lifted his head, the searing heat of his eyes falling upon her once more. “How long were you there?” 

 

She thought that if there had been a chair nearby, she would have fallen into it. The answer to his question was a fact that she had tried very much to ignore. That, and his face and his words and the scars on his chest and every other damned thing about him when he had awoken on that ship. 

 

She steeled her spine, steadied her breath. “Nearly four days.”

 

He breathed out mightily, as if she had hit him. 

 

“I took my meals beside your bed and read and wrote my letters at the desk in the cabin,” she continued, braver than she felt, figuring she might as well sprint headlong into the dangerous country he was leading them into. “Any meetings were taken in my borrowed room beside yours, so as not to disturb you. Whenever I felt I could sleep, I laid in the bed in there as well. Besides those rare times and bathing, I was there with you.”

 

He bit his lip, looked at her and then glanced away again. He seemed helplessly restless, his shoulders twitching and his hands fidgeting. “Why?”

 

Her heart was hammering at the top of her throat, her arms going tingly. He was forcing her to look at all those things she had hastily and poorly hidden away and she was not certain that she was ready for it.

 

“What is this all about?” she asked instead, her voice weaker than she wished. 

 

He shook his head, continuing down the beach. She followed him after a moment. He stopped, bending to pluck a flat, round stone from the sand, just a few feet from the surf. He flicked it into the water and it skipped along the surface for a time or three before being swallowed up by the tide. 

 

“Jon,” she said, knowing full well what the sound of his name, coming unadorned from her for the first time, might do to him. Indeed, he turned back to her, a strange, haunted look in his face– the face of a man who had heard the voice of a loved one he had thought long gone. It stopped her dead in her tracks. 

 

“I need you to talk to me,” she finally managed. She stepped closer to him, her muscles tense as iron. “You are… you’re my ally, now. We must be honest with each other. If we cannot talk like we once did, this will be all for naught. What is it that I’ve done to offend you?”

 

Jon sighed, his shoulders falling. He fiddled with another stone he had found, weighing his answer as he always did. “You’ve done nothing to offend, Your Grace.” His voice was a rough as brambles, his mouth lined with a well-tended worry. 

 

She dared yet another step closer. “Then why do you shrink from me so? As if you were a hound that I had beaten? Why bend the knee to me if you had no intention to help me?”

 

He huffed, throwing the stone he had been worrying in his fingers. It landed poorly, only skipping once. “I am yours to command, Your Grace,” he answered levelly. “Whatever you should wish of me will be done.”

 

She felt a flush seep up her neck, but she kept herself together. “That is not what I asked you.”

 

“It _ is _ what you asked me,” he responded flatly. “And good ally, a good bannerman— they do as commanded.” 

 

“And offer counsel,” she nearly growled, her patience running dry. “Attend meetings and advise their queen as they see fit.”

 

She saw him swallow and he looked up at a tern screaming above them. “I send my Hand as proxy, as is my right and at my discretion,” he replied. “Surely Your Grace does not sit in every meeting that your advisors convene.”

 

She bristled. He was, by strict definition, infuriatingly correct, but that still did not explain his strange behavior. “I’ll allow you that, my lord, but only grudgingly.” 

 

He  _ smiled _ , the expression shaving years from his face and warming her as good as a torch, but it was gone almost as quickly as it came. “As I said, Your Grace, I am only fulfilling my duty as your bannerman. I apologize, if my service is unsatisfactory.”

 

And then it clicked, the purpose behind his infuriating dallying and sulkiness revealing itself like a duck flushed from the reeds. She drew her lower lip over her teeth, willing her ire down. “A good ally, that is what you aim to be,” she returned slowly. “There is nothing requiring that a good ally should walk with their queen along the cliffs and talk of idle strategy, or speak over dinner about not much at all.” 

 

Jon didn’t answer. Didn’t look at her. She had to resist the urge to hit him, shake him. She had to calm herself, bring her temper under heel. She had obviously done something to wound him, and she needed to know what it was. Needed to make it right, because,  _ gods _ , she missed the damned fool. 

 

“I count you among my friends, Jon Snow,” she finally told him, voice low and solemn, done with little games of propriety and formality. “And I did like to think that you once thought me a friend, though now I am not so sure. I suppose I am wondering what happened, and if there is anything I can do to mend it.”

 

He laughed bitterly at that, meeting her eyes with an odd look in his face– a mixture of despair and devotion that seemed too cumbersome a thing for her to take in. “It’s good to know that you miss me, Your Grace. Though I am not sure it makes anything easier on me.” 

 

She looked down at her boots, gathering herself, his deft assessment of her heart weakening her far too much. “Then… am I to believe that you… miss me as well?” 

 

“Aye,” he replied immediately, simply. She felt as if she had been flying down a swift river, and that one, simple word was a rock in the current. 

 

They were drawing closer and closer to that fatal flame that they had circled around for months and she was not so sure she would not reach out and grasp it this time– weariness making her careless, the ache in her bones that only he could heal making her reckless. 

 

She looked around, collecting her senses, taking in her world, ensuring its reality. The surf was kissing the soles of her boots now, little clams in the sand blowing the encroaching sea from their burrows. The sky was a sullen, miserable slate, flat as a mirror, the sea eerily similar. Somewhere, far away, she could hear the snort and guffaw of sea lions lazing upon the rocks over the grumble of a distant storm. 

 

“Speak your mind, Jon Snow. What can I do to… set things right?” 

 

He smiled again, a bit cold, a bit ironic, taking one last rove of the horizon with his dark eyes before turning back to her. “Marry me.”

 

She felt every last fiber and vessel within her grind to a halt. If he had reached out and nudged her on the shoulder at that moment, she had no doubt she would’ve tumbled into the sand. 

 

He offered no elaboration, no argument. He simply stood there in the surf, rumpled and handsome in the new mist and rising wind and looked at her. Looked at her as if she were the only woman he ever wished to look upon again. 

 

Something in her threw a switch– her heart lurched back into rhythm, her throat able to form the only question that had been burning in her brain since he had spoken the words. “What?”

 

“You asked me what could set things right,” he replied. She could not believe how calm he seemed, how…matter of fact. “You could marry me.” 

 

She struggled to find words, clawing them from the blank buzz that was her brain. “This is how you propose to a queen?” is what came out, though she did not mean it to. “ _ This _ is the small price you demand to solve a… a  _ falling out _ ?”

 

“I never thought I’d ever propose to  _ any _ woman, Your Grace,” he answered frankly. “Much less a queen, but I am not proposing to you. I am offering the solution you seek.”

 

She shook her head, her heart in an absolute fury.  _ What is this childishness? _ “I have no inkling to what game you're playing, my lord, but I think you should explain yourself, and with haste.”

 

His hair was properly wild, almost the whole of it loosed from its tie. It made him look so much younger, though he stood as weary and weighted as a man double his age with thrice the troubles… if that was possible. 

 

“I bent the knee to you, Daenerys, because it was the only thing I could do.”

 

She felt herself still, some of the anger washing away with the tide. The sound of her name in his mouth, the earnest light in his eyes pinning her as good as a nail to a board. 

 

“You refused me for weeks,” she pointed out shakily. “And yet you pledged yourself to me although I had already promised my help.”

 

He nodded, swallowing hard, shaking his head as if ridding his mind of a memory too painful to hold. “You were the first thing I saw when I woke up.” He took a great breath, as if he were walking willingly into a pit full of serpents. “After I dreamed of you for days, you were the first thing I saw when I woke up.”

 

She couldn’t breathe. The weight of all he was confessing, the fact that his eyes seemed overbright and rimmed with pain– it was all too much. His composure seemed to be dwindling by the second, eked away by the gibbering surf at his feet. 

 

His chest hitched as he continued. “I am a king, aye, but I am no man worthy of you, and that is why I cannot bear to be what I once was to you.” 

 

Her pulse was throbbing painfully in her throat. Her knees felt as wobbly as if she had just stepped onto land after a month at sea. She felt the amniotic  _ ‘slap’ _ of the tide at her ankles, but she hardly cared.

 

“Do you really think that, Jon Snow?” she asked so quietly it was a wonder he heard her at all over the thunder of the waves. 

 

He took in a sharp breath, looking away, blinking rapidly. “It does not matter what  _ I _ think, Your Grace.” He threw an arm out, helpless.  _ The world, advisors and gossips alike _ , was left unsaid, but as plain as if he had etched it into the sand.

 

She stepped closer to him– closer than she had ever dared before. She could feel the puff of his unsteady breaths on her brow. “Who summoned you to Dragonstone, my lord?” she asked fiercely. 

 

He blinked, lost. “You did, Your Grace.”

 

“Who allowed you to mine the mountain my castle sits upon? Who flew through two nights of hell to come find you? Who sat at your bedside for four endless days?” He did not answer, his eyes dark and questing for the truth hidden in her words. “ _ I _ am the one to deem you worthy, my lord, and no one else.” 

 

He swallowed, something tearing him up properly within him. “Then why retreat? Why retreat and never once come back?”

 

She stepped back from him, skin gone cold and clammy, hands tingly. 

 

“I  _ know _ what those things mean, Your Grace,” his voice taking on an edge that dug into her good as a blade. “A queen does not fly off to the end of the world to save a man who has offered her nothing but fool ideas and fool deeds. A queen does not sit beside the sickbed of some rebel king for four days because duty begs it of her.” 

 

To her utter terror, she felt her eyes heat, her vision blur and splinter into brillantine colors. She took in a great, quaking breath. 

 

“What else was I to think, but that you had been lectured out of… whatever you may have felt for me?” He shook his head, his ire rising, a deep and dark fire bleeding into his words like spilled ink over water. “A bastard with no true name to give you, king of a wasteland realm packed to the gills with people who curse your very name, a fool of a man who only wishes to distract you from your throne. What a fine match for the Mother of Dragons, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.” 

 

She swallowed, looking down at her boots as she thought of what to say to him. Thought of what she could possibly articulate to right the terrible wrong she had unknowingly committed. To heal the great hurt she had seared him with. 

 

She lifted her head, a sudden calm rushing over her. “You are a man, Jon Snow, so you will never understand what it is like to be a woman who may never bear a child of her own blood.”

 

He looked winded at this, as if she had drawn back and hit him across the face. She stepped so she was more level with him and they stood shoulder to shoulder, looking to the white-capped froth of the sea. “I told you I could not conceive for a reason.” 

 

He looked over at her, eyes slanted in guilt. She had made sure he knew, for his sake as much as her own, and he had drawn back like a bow string. 

 

“I thought–” her voice cracked tellingly. She cleared her throat, licked her lips. “I assumed that you had heeded my warning.” 

 

She glanced over in time to see him closing his eyes, hanging his head, cursing lowly at himself. She did not know what to think about that, so she simply stood, unsure where to tread, of what to say. She only knew that he needed some time to wrangle it all out— as did she. 

 

She nearly cried out when his hands clamped onto her upper arms and spun her about, but it was lost within his mouth in an instant. 

 

There was barely a hesitation from her, something secret and dangerous within her wanting this for so long it simply swamped her as easy as tipping over a sandcastle. His hands were large and warm at her shoulders, her spine. She spread her own at the back of his skull, over his jaw. She was wasting away and the only antidote lived behind his teeth, within the heat of his skin, beneath the pulse of his blood. 

 

_ Gods _ , she was so weak-limbed she was unsure she would be able to stand if he let her go, her heart pounding so frantically it echoed painfully through her lungs, making it impossible to breathe properly.

 

But he broke away, gently, like the parting of a stormcloud, and she nearly sobbed at the pain of it. He stroked a thumb over her temple, his eyes so adoring, so full of careful hope she could scarcely tolerate it. 

 

“By the gods, are we fools,” he breathed, a weak laugh escaping his lips. 

 

She managed a laugh, too, the sound wild and strange considering all the dread things that had plagued them not moments ago. 

 

“Bloody fools,” she replied in a whisper, something else swamping her now. Something like a wanton  _ happiness _ , some sort of careless, foolish hope that she had buried so deep within her she had been unsure that it would ever be found again. 

 

“So, Jon Snow,” she murmured, a bit addled by what had just happened, by  _ him _ and everything he had been able to make her feel since he had stood in front of her in that dusty throne room, ages ago now. “How would you propose to a queen?”

 

He drew back just a fraction, so he could gather her left hand into his right and worry at her fourth finger between his forefinger and thumb. The smile hidden in his mouth was small, but as bright as a torch to her. He cleared his throat. “Daenerys Stormborn, of the House Targaryen, First of her Name…” 

 

She bit back a girlish grin. “Queen of the Andals and the First Men,” she supplied.

 

His smile widened. “Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea…” he faltered again. 

 

_ Breaker of… _ she mouthed. 

 

“Breaker of Chains,” he supplied, “and Mother of Dragons.”

 

She lifted an eyebrow, playacting as a calm and calculated queen, though she felt as if she might fly apart at the seams. “Impressive.” 

 

He laughed quietly, a mere rumble in his chest. “Would you do me the honor of making me your husband?” He smirked at her, pleased at his joke, though it seemed to be only half in jest. 

 

She snorted. “I’m not sure that is how it goes.” 

 

“How do you know?” 

 

“I’ve been married before,” she said, somewhat indignant, but then sobered. “But I’ve never been properly proposed to, now that you mention it.” 

 

“Then I am sorry, Your Grace, that your first proper proposal is from a man properly abysmal at it.” He paused, eyes squinty and adorable against the stinging drizzle. 

 

She smiled sweetly at him, stroking a loose curl behind his ear, though it was as vain as bailing a rowboat in a deluge in the accursed wind. “I think you are doing splendid so far, my lord.” 

 

His smile was the most radiant, earnest one she had ever seen from him before. He leaned his brow to her own. “Would Daenerys Targaryen, one of many prestigious titles, marry me, Jon Snow, of none at all?”

 

She had wanted to be smart about it, to sass and tease a bit more perhaps, but the way he was looking at her quashed all such desires instantly. 

 

“Yes,” was all she could manage before her mouth was caught up with his again. She was unsure if she would ever get enough. 

 

Eventually, they had to break apart, the weather worsening around them, the tide splashing them to their ankles. Even in such miserable conditions, they were reluctant, both replete with a cautious glee, a fragile hope neither thought they’d ever know. A desperate need to know more of it, of each other. 

 

Under the bitter lashes of the rain, they trekked back to the castle. Dany hunched under Jon’s arm as he tried to shelter her from the worst of it. His efforts accomplished next to nothing, but she didn’t mind. He tried, as he always did, and she loved him for it. 

 

She would let him shield her from the rain, from the snow, from the troubles of the world— effective or no— for rest of her days. 

 

+++ 

 

“State of emergency   
How beautiful to be   
State of emergency   
Is where I want to be   
  


“All that no-one sees   
You see   
What's inside of me   
Every nerve that hurts   
You heal”

 

\-- “Joga”, Bjork

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I tried to write fluff. 
> 
> This is both for the Missing Moments from Season 7 prompt hosted by [@iceandfiresource](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/iceandfiresource) over on tumblr and for Allegra. But it's 99% for Allegra. Your strength through this ordeal has been nothing short of heroic, my friend. I, and most of the Jonerys fam, are thinking about you every day, love. I hope this gives you a smile as you brave the long road to recovery. :)
> 
> Thank for the Tarts for keeping me perpetually motivated and heartened. And a special thanks for [justwanderingneverlost](https://archiveofourown.org/users/justwanderingneverlost/pseuds/justwanderingneverlost) for the once over. (And now for the amazing moodboard as well!)
> 
> Let me know what you think, my lovely readers. I promise to get back to the fic-mines.
> 
> (Come say hi on tumblr: [@freshhexes](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/freshhexes))


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